


when masturbation's lost its fun (you're fuckin' lonely)

by SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Depression, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Masturbation, Set pre season 1, Sexual Fantasy, and not liking himself, and yearning, basically it's a character study, but one of the characters is jerking off the whole time, follow your fucking dreams, i don't know how sexy this seems but it's probably less sexy than that, like this is first and foremost martin being sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse/pseuds/SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse
Summary: Martin wishes someone would touch him like that. Martin wishes someone would look at him like that, like how Tim looks at Jon sometimes. Wishes someone would talk to him like Jon talks to Tim. But Martin is here, alone.
Relationships: (mentioned) - Relationship, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	when masturbation's lost its fun (you're fuckin' lonely)

**Author's Note:**

> I love fanfiction you can just write whatever the hell you want. Here's like 800 words of Martin depresturbating. Title is from Longview by Green Day, which is really how it's going right now. Also there's some negative self-talk here from Martin, so watch out for that.

Martin has reached the point of a Sunday where he’s masturbating specifically because he knows it will make him feel worse. It’s too warm in his flat — even now, on a researcher’s salary, he can’t make himself turn the aircon any higher than absolutely necessary — and he wipes his sweaty, sticky forehead with his sweaty, sticky hand. His whole body is damp with sweat, and the waistband of his boxers is digging blunt red lines into his sides, and his trousers are hanging off one ankle and pooling on the floor next to his bed, and his wrist hurts, and he feels like such a  _ mess  _ that he could actually cry.

But crying is effort, and also requires something like dignity, and right now he doesn’t have much capacity for either. He comes instead, after another few minutes, with a little snort of air out of his nose — getting off got boring about three rounds ago — and pulls his hand out of his pants, and sinks down further into the mattress. He really needs to change his sheets. 

Tomorrow he’ll be fine. His alarm clock will go off at seven, like it always does, and he’ll wake up and get out of bed like it’s easy. He’ll get dressed, something nice with collars and buttons, and he’ll brush his teeth and put product in his hair and make himself a healthy breakfast to eat on the tube. He’ll go into work and he’ll try his best and even if people don’t think he’s competent at least they won’t think he’s like  _ this. _ It’s strange. He wonders, sometimes, why he cares so much about how he feels, when how he feels is so easy to separate from the rest of his life. Seems like it would be easier to just stop feeling entirely, and let himself melt into the machinery of things. Be productive and relatively useful in his free time too. But he can’t quite make himself let go. He’s stuck here. 

Martin looks up at the ceiling, which looks the same as it did last Sunday. He rolls his shoulders until they pop. He considers getting up for a glass of water, then sticks his hand back down his pants instead. He’s sort of half-numb from the last orgasm, and the other half hurts, but who cares? That’s pretty much how he feels all the time, isn’t it? Ha.

He thought about Jon for the last one, and Tim for the one before that, and now because he can’t think of anyone else he decides to picture both of them together. It’s sort of exciting, at least. Novel. He tries not to be too invasive about it, doesn’t let himself imagine anything more intimate than the physical aspects, the touching. Why they’ve decided to go at it over — hm — an institute desk is their business. He won’t be able to look either of them in the eyes tomorrow, but that’s nothing new.

The odd thing is that Jon and Tim touch each other all the time. You wouldn’t think it, from seeing the two of them separately. Jon is quiet, closed-off, brusque in a panicked sort of way when cornered into small talk. Tim is loud and bright and friendly, a little too much sometimes, almost overly intense in his good cheer. Martin would think they’d hate each other, or at least try for mutual avoidance. And yet. Wherever Jon is, Tim’s there too, with a hand on Jon’s back, his shoulder, adjusting Jon’s glasses with a flick of his finger and tapping him on the nose when he glares. And Jon doesn’t just put up with it. It’s hard to see, but Martin watches very closely — a featherlight tap on Tim’s elbow when Jon wants him to look at something. A file full of papers pressed up to Tim’s chest and held there, just for a moment, as if to let the warmth of Jon’s hand seep through. 

Martin wishes someone would touch him like that. Martin wishes someone would  _ look  _ at him like that, like how Tim looks at Jon sometimes, eyes soft and half shut. Wishes someone would talk to him like Jon talks to Tim, voice low like every word between them is a secret. But Martin is here, alone, sprawled out on his dirty sheets, jerking off while thinking about his coworkers, and Martin is disgusting, and Martin is a pervert, and Martin is— 

He gasps, digs a heel into the bed. Alright. Alright, that was fine. Better than the last one. He sits up a little, wipes his hand on the sheets, checks his phone. No new messages, of course, but now that he’s already looking at it maybe he could search up a recipe? Make something nice for dinner, have some wine, maybe watch a movie after. Like a date. He actually laughs out loud. Like the world’s saddest, most pathetic date.

In the end, he doesn’t make dinner, doesn’t even get out of bed. It would take so much effort, and his body feels heavy, and he’s tired, and he knows that even if he does make himself a fucking five course meal it won’t make him any happier. He’ll still be lonely, still be miserable, still be pinned down under whatever force it is that makes him completely unable to improve his life. Getting off is easy, at least. Worth it, if nothing else, for that one blank instant when he’s nothing at all. 


End file.
